Masquerade
by Eventide
Summary: VtM. A mismatched coterie are to attend a Masquerade, but in the World of Darkness, a party can never be without its intrigues.
1. Burning glances, Turning heads

**A/N:** The name Locke is pronounced Low-key.

Constructive, and detailed Reviews are requested, especially concerning character personalities. (Character discriptions and backgrounds that have not been detailed so far are already slated to be written in later sections.) Thank you. Enjoy!

* * *

It was one of those moments when she wished she was Lasombra, and would not show up in a mirror. She hated when she was made up, dressed like a fancy from some adolescent novel. At approximately nineteen years of age, she had been youthful. But then there was little to age a girl back when she was mortal. The water had been clean, the air pure, food natural. It was with effort she looked mature. Carefully chosen clothes to accentuate curves but in colors of sobriety. Hair done up, neat, tidy, tamed. Artful make-up.

And in a few wistful moments of a neonate, that at least looked old enough to drink, but wore a childlike enthusiasm like perfume, all that careful work had collapsed. Her hair was a riot of wild midnight curls, her face unpainted leaving her lips that bright scarlet they had become with the Embrace. Swaths of near transparent dusky pink silk draped over her body, the skirt a fairytale of wispy flutters. She looked like a beautiful doll, a woman-child of ethereal grace and beauty. She hated it. And she despised the shoes.

"I look like a fool," she commented with a sulk. Locke choosing the better part of valor, turn to the window, holding the heavy red and gold tasseled drape aside so he might gaze out over the grounds of the estate. Though the pair was accustomed to shared silence, it seemed Morrigan wouldn't be denied tonight. "I look like I should be in one of those pre-teen fantasy pornographies."

Only slight surprise stirred her when the last was still met with silence. She slouched back in her chair and scowled prettily, much to her continued discontent. Though it was the silence that followed that spurred her companion to respond. "You could change," came the disconnected reply.

Morrigan dropped her head to rest on her propped up fist. "You think I didn't try? She won't let me."

"Fuck Lilly."

Morrigan raised her head and looked across the room at him, her gaze slightly more narrow. "That is never likely to happen, Salvadore." She used his old name to emphasize her displeasure with the insinuation. She crossed her legs and leaned back further, peering at him. He was dressed in a white poet's shirt, the drawstring throat untied to expose a glimpse of pale chest. His pants were black matte leather, and looked poured on as they disappeared into thigh high boots that had leather ties to secure them around his knees. "And your costume is no better. Why don't you change?"

He turned away from the window then and looked at her. His mouth was open to answer, but hitched ever so slightly. He blinked once slowly, and then continued on, Morrigan completely unaware that the lace white tops of her thigh high stockings had been exposed. "It's not worth getting in a fight over."

Morrigan scoffed mockingly, as the door to the drawing room opened and Bet strode in. Her black hair was piled up on her head, little curling tendrils hanging down to brush her bare shoulders. A bright red rose was tucked into the curls. Her dress was all black lace, the corset drawn tight to the waist and the skirt belled out. A pattern of roses was worked into the fabric with red sparkles.

"You don't match the theme," Morrigan said shortly. It only earned her a grin from the other woman, who at death had been about 6 years Morrigan's senior but in the Blood was just a baby.

"Actually, I'm supposed to be Carlotta in the end of the play, when they perform _Don Juan Triumphant_." The former pirate did a very girlish twirl that sent the skirt with it's petticoats spinning. "It's better than wearing one of those huge white wigs anyway."

Morrigan only frowned. Bet was enjoying this far too much for her taste. At least Locke had been bullied into his attire as she had. She watched Bet cross the room and sink rather gracefully onto a couch, in spite of the corset and petticoats. Bet caught her glance and just shrugged with her near perpetual grin, "I've spent a lotta time with courtesans in my day. Ya pick up a few tricks. I just count myself lucky that I don't have t'breathe anymore."

They were all neatly arranged in the room when Lilly and Chris entered. Chris wore a tux with the same style of boots as Locke's, and a long weighted cape with red lining. His hair was slicked back and a white mask sat on one side of his face. Lilly was resplendent, as usual, in a white old fashioned dressing gown. She wore the same white stockings as Morrigan, but instead of ballet slippers she had silver and white heels. She had left her deep red hair in a wild spill of curls like Morrigan's. And to Morrigan it seemed that she and Lilly would have been a matching set had Morrigan's outfit been a more crimson red or black. Perhaps, the ancient Toreador thought, that was one consideration the neonate had given her.

"Oh, you all look perfect," Lilly sighed happily. Morrigan knew why both she and Locke had not really fought about their attire, they were both just too fond of the young Toreador, with her love of life and sweet open smile. Most any who met the girl were smitten from the first, and Morrigan grudgingly had to count herself among those lost to Lilly's spell. Oh, well. She stood and slung her cloak off the back of her chair and around her shoulders.

"Shall we go then?"

****

"Mr. Christopher 'Strings' Spence and Miss Lilly Austin," the doorman announced in droll and formal tones. Morrigan listened to the rather loud applause that met the musical duo's appearance. The young Toreadors had quite the bit of acclaim not only in mortal society but Kindred as well.

"Like I really want you to escort me down those stairs," Bet's voice drifted to her over the din. "You'll like as not shove me down 'em for kicks."

Morrigan turned to see Locke give a half grin in response to the pirate captain's accusation. Locke enjoyed teasing her, especially if he could make it seem like he hadn't done a thing at all. He managed to fool most, but Morrigan had known him too long not to believe Bet's outrageous exclamations at Locke weren't warranted.

Bet's storm-grey eyes latched onto Morrigan. "Why don't you take her? It'd make more sense anyway."

Locke's eyes met Morrigan's and his smile widened only a tad. "Morrigan needs no arm to cling to." Morrigan had a feeling of some emotion transmitting between them, and she looked away first, as she always did. Locke took Bet's arm and guided her to the doorman, handing over their invitations.

"Locke the Lord of .....Inkiness and Captain Bet Black."

She heard murmurs from below and knew it was because of Locke. Very few Lasombra were a part of the Camarilla, especially one as old and powerful (and as self-amused) as Locke. With a mental sigh she removed her cloak and handed it to the servant nearby and approached the doorman herself. He took the letter of invitation from her hand with a formal bow and announced her as she stepped to the head of the stairs.

"_La Morrigan_."

She always thought the adding of the French article was strange sounding with her Gaelic name, but it did seemed to command attention. She was La Morrigan, the vessel of the Goddess of Vengeance and Seduction, and no one to be trifled with. With a thought she could clear the room, with the exception of a small few, by invoking her divine powers. That alone was bound to command attention and a healthy apprehension.

As she descended the stairs into the grand ballroom she felt a slight urge to glance to the left. She recognized the power for what it was and chose to allow it. She relented, letting her eyes roam and latch onto a man standing in the middle of a gaggle of women. His hair was chestnut brown and longish, drifting in his eyes, but shorter than she remembered it. His face was more lovely than handsome, and his eyes were that pale gold-brown she remembered. He looked at her longingly and it made her stomach churn. She felt her normally impassive expression turn cold and she looked away from him, continuing down the steps.

Locke and Bet met her at the bottom, both moving to block the her left side. Bet's expression was serious, moving into body guard mode, and Locke's face though its features were unmoved, his eyes held the beginnings of anger. She felt his mind brush hers, asking for permission and she allowed him in.

_What is it?_

She simply showed him the image of the man and conveyed that she simply did not wish to speak to him. _He's no threat. Merely an unwanted surprise._

Bet huffed her impatience allowed. "Gimme some info here folks. I can't watch your back if I don't know what's coming."

"Indeed, ma cherí," a cultured, heavily French voice came from behind Bet. "Fore warned, is fore armed." They all turned toward the man to whom the voice belonged, the very one she had shown them. Locke seemed to stiffen ever so slightly at Morrigan's side, but to his credit he didn't attempt to stand in front of her.

"Locke, Bet," Morrigan spoke in sharp matter-of-fact tones. " This is Jaques du Mer. My sire." Bet's eyes widened visibly and Locke didn't even move as Jaques bowed briefly to them both, his eyes hardly leaving Morrigan's face.

"Enchanté," he said. "Morrigan, I would very much like to speak to you a moment."

Morrigan's eyes narrowed and her chin tilted up. "I've no moment to spare you Jaques." She held up her hand to stave off his objection. "Besides I'm certain the swarm of ladies you were with a moment ago are missing you. Good night."

She turned and moved into the crowd. The main lights dimmed and a spot came up on the dais at the opposite end of the ballroom. Their host came to the stage making some short unimportant thank you speech.

"And now please welcome Aggravated Damage!" Morrigan couldn't really hear Bet calling after her through the raucous din of the crowd.

*****

"Morrigan," Bet shouted but was drowned out by the sudden cheering of the massive crowd as Chris and Lilly's band took the stage. She darted a questioning look at Locke, but it was Jaques that made himself heard over the noise.

"Do not let her alone tonight, cheri," he nearly shouted close to her face, yet she just barely heard him. "She will need protection."

Bet glanced at Locke to double check, received a nod and then set out through the crowd after Morrigan. Once she was out of sight, Locke fixed his gaze on the other Cainite. He felt rage trying to bubble up inside him to spill out in a bloodbath. But he held himself in check. Instead, he motioned for the Frenchman to follow him through the crowd.

He flowed through the crowd, passing near the stage. His eyes met Chris's purposefully, and moved on. They would not tell Lilly of anything yet. They would need the illusion for the moment, and the little flower would not be able to play along as convincingly as Chris. They'd beg forgiveness later.

He led the man to the back door and held it open for du Mer to pass through. The Frenchman gave a slight nod of the head and passed by seemingly without worry. How the fool had lived so long, Locke couldn't begin to guess.

They stood on a stone deck that led down into a old style garden; hedge mazes, fountains, statues, flowers, soft lighting, very classic, very over done, very Toreador. The brunette vampire strode to the thick granite railing, placing his palms flat on the smooth surface. His costume was old style French-colonial fop, though he'd left off the face paint. The coat was china silk in soft sky blue, a pattern of peonies in gold as accent. The under shirt looked like white cotton, and had ruffles at the end of the sleeves. Instead of ruffles being worked into the shirt, he wore an actual cravat that looked tight enough to choke, and his waistcoat matched the surcoat exactly. He wore tight breeches of a the same sky blue with gold ties at the knee. White leggings covered the rest of his legs, disappearing into heeled shoes of gold leather.

He kept in profile to Locke, the soft light from the garden and from the moon casting his pretty features in a mix of highlight and shadow. Locke realized oddly that the Frenchman was posing for him, casting himself in the best light to accentuate his features. It was such a peculiar display that Locke wanted to laugh.

"I wondered what you would look like," Jaques said softly, his voice sweetened with his French accent. "When I heard she had taken a male companion, I was stunned. My ange foncé, I never thought she would get close to any man. So I wondered what he would be like, the one who could get passed her fear, her hate."

He turned to face Locke then, Toreadors always did have a flair for the dramatic. "You are not what I expected."

"And what did you expect," Locke's voice remained distant and cold. "Someone like you, perhaps? Pretty, decadent, and flamboyant? A flippant playboy, who flits from one girl to another, like bees with flowers?"

"I do not blame you for disliking me," the Frenchman cast his eyes away, a show of shame. "I am sure she has described me in all my failings of her in detail. I was only doing what I thought right."

"You're wrong," Locke's voice finally held some flavor of emotion, disdain. "She never spoke of you at all. And she doesn't care to see you again. Stay away from her."

With his warning imparted, he turned his back on the Frenchman, heading for the door. He was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"I am afraid I cannot do that, m'sieu. Not yet."

******


	2. Face of Beast

The music was a distance thrum, a soft vibration in the walls, when she finally chose to stop. Almost blindly she'd moved, through hallways and up stairwells. Memories, old and deep, threatened to overwhelm her, and she had run from them. Always she ran from them.

She turned into the doorway of an empty salon and moved to the window. Putting her palms flat against the glass she looked out and up at the sky. There she saw the moon, near full, shining bright silver over the nightscape. The sky was clear and there would be stars, but her eyes were all for the moon.

She fancied she could feel the light on her skin, gentle and soft, reaching through her, to tug on her heart. That pang reminded her of how cut off she was now, from all the power she once tapped so easily. Power, that had flowed through her veins as smoothly as her own life blood, filling her, connecting her, now was a mere shadow of what it had been. The Goddess within was trapped, and therefore diminished, without that connection to life.

_Why did you come? Why now? Must you always remind me of what I have lost? Everything that was stolen from me? Do you not know I feel that loss every moment of every night?_

Such questions she could never utter aloud, could never make real. To do so would be to give in to weakness, and all her millennia had taught her, that weakness was never allowed, especially in the Kindred world. The weak were exploited, used, and eventually cast aside, once nothing of value remained. She was not weak. And yet…she had run.

_I will not be driven out by him. I will not run from the ghost of my past. He is but a distant memory, nothing more._ Determined, she stepped back from the window, and turned to face a ghost, only to find a monster,

******

Had she breath, she would be gasping. Had she a pulse, it would be racing. This he knew, for the fear that welled within her eyes. So delicate she looked, petite and fragile, a sharp sound might shatter her to dust. She stood there in the bright moonlight, for all the world reminding him of a frightened doe facing the hungry wolf. And indeed, this wolf was near starved. He stalked out of the shadowed door way toward her.

"Tá an marbh!" she rasped, her disbelief evident. Instinct drove her backwards in retreat as his advanced upon her. Her wide, terrified green eyes raked over him, in a vain attempt to find him as someone else. Alas, for her, though he was much altered by the passage of time, still his form was virtually the same she would remember. His hair still long, gold as the sun, hung widely about his broad, powerful shoulders. His features, still brutishly handsome, now had a more feral quality. The features of the wolf he favored had begun insinuating themselves upon him. He bore a stubble of golden fur on his face. His eyes were always of the beast's golden amber, tinged with red. And his canines ever elongated, grinned wickedly.

"Al beter om te eten u met, mijn snoepje." He snickered at his own joke, certain she would understand the reference. He certainly did feel as potent and powerful as a wolf. And he was a ravenous. Though he had fed well upon blood that night, the mind, if not the body, craved else. And here was the feast he had dreamed of every moment of his un-life.

It was beyond time for another taste.

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A/N: first I apologize for my hideous Gaelic and Dutch. I am forced to use internet translators. If anyone knows the proper translations, I would be very happy to receive them

"Tá an marbh!" - Gaelic. "You are dead!"

"Al beter om te eten u met, mijn snoepje." - Dutch "All the better to eat you with, my sweet."


End file.
